by John Buchan
I tried the books, but most of them were a long sight too learned for me. Most were old, and many were in Latin, and some were evidently treasures, for I would take one down and find it a leather box with inside it a slim battered volume wrapped in wash-leather. But I found in one corner a great array of works of travel, so I selected one of Aurel Stein’s books and settled down in an arm-chair with it. I tried to fix my attention, but found it impossible. The sentences would not make sense to my restless mind, and I could not follow the maps. So I got up again, replaced the work on its shelf, and began to wander about. It was a dull close day, and out in the street a water-cart was sprinkling the dust and children were going park-wards with their nurses… I simply could not account for my disquiet, but I was like a fine lady with the vapours. I felt that somewhere in that room there was something that it concerned me deeply to know.
I drifted towards the bare writing-table. There was nothing on it but a massive silver inkstand in the shape of an owl, a silver tray of pens and oddments, a leather case of notepaper and a big blotting-book. I would never have made a good thief, for I felt both nervous and ashamed as, after listening for steps, I tried the drawers.
They were all locked – all, that is, except a shallow one at the top which looked as if it were meant to contain one of those big engagement tablets which busy men affect. There was no tablet there, but there were two sheets of paper.
Both had been torn from a loose-leaf diary, and both covered the same dates – the fortnight between Monday the 29th of May, and Sunday the 11th of June. In the first the space for the days was filled with entries in Medina’s neat writing, entries in some sort of shorthand. These entries were close and thick up to and including Friday the 2nd of June; after that there was nothing. The second sheet of paper was just the opposite. The spaces were virgin up to and including the 2nd of June; after that, on till the 11th, they were filled with notes.
As I stared at these two sheets, some happy instinct made me divine their meaning. The first sheet contained the steps that Medina would take up to the day of liquidation, which was clearly the 2nd of June. After that, if all went well, came peace and leisure. But if it didn’t go well, the second sheet contained his plans – plans I have no doubt for using the hostages, for wringing safety out of certain great men’s fears… My interpretation was confirmed by a small jotting in long-hand on the first sheet in the space for 2nd June. It was the two words ‘Dies irae’, which my Latin was just good enough to construe.
I had lost all my tremors now, but I was a thousandfold more restless. I must get word to Macgillivray at once – no, that was too dangerous – to Mary. I glanced at the telephone and resolved to trust my luck.
I got through to the Wymondhams’ house without difficulty. Barnard the butler answered, and informed me that Mary was at home. Then after a few seconds I heard her voice.
‘Mary,’ I said, ‘the day is changed to the 2nd of June. You understand, warn everybody… I can’t think why you are worrying about that child.’
For I was conscious that Medina was entering the room. I managed with my knee to close the shallow drawer with the two sheets in it, and I nodded and smiled to him, putting my hand over the receiver.
‘Forgive me using your telephone. Fact is, my wife’s in London and she sent me round a note here asking me to ring her up. She’s got the boy on her mind.’
I put the tube to my ear again. Mary’s voice sounded sharp and high-pitched.
‘Are you there? I’m in Mr Medina’s library and I can’t disturb him talking through this machine. There’s no cause to worry about Peter John. Greenslade is usually fussy enough, and if he’s calm there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be. But if you want another opinion, why not get it? We may as well get the thing straightened out now, for I may be going abroad early in June… Yes, some time after the 2nd.’
Thank God Mary was quick-witted.
‘The 2nd is very near. Why do you make such sudden plans, Dick? I can’t go home without seeing you. I think I’ll come straight to Hill Street.’
‘All right,’ I said, ‘do as you please.’ I rang off and looked at Medina with a wry smile. ‘What fussers women are! Do you mind if my wife comes round here? She won’t be content till she has seen me. She has come up with a crazy notion of taking down a surgeon to give an opinion on the child’s appendix. Tommy rot! But that’s a woman’s way.’
He clearly suspected nothing. ‘Certainly let Lady Hannay come here. We’ll give her tea. I’m sorry that the drawing-room is out of commission just now. She might have liked to see my miniatures.’
Mary appeared in ten minutes, and most nobly she acted her part. It was the very model of a distraught silly mother who bustled into the room. Her eyes looked as if she had been crying and she had managed to disarrange her hat and untidy her hair.
‘Oh, I’ve been so worried,’ she wailed, after she had murmured apologies to Medina. ‘He really has had a bad tummy pain and nurse thought last night that he was feverish. I’ve seen Mr Dobson-Wray, and he can come down by the four-forty-five… He’s such a precious little boy, Mr Medina, that I feel we must take every precaution with him. If Mr Dobson-Wray says it is all right, I promise not to fuss any more. I think a second opinion would please Dr Greenslade, for he too looked rather anxious… Oh, no, thank you so much, but I can’t stay for tea. I have a taxi waiting, and I might miss my train. I’m going to pick up Mr Dobson-Wray in Wimpole Street.’
She departed in the same tornado in which she had come, just stopping to set her hat straight at one of the mirrors in the hall.
‘Of course I’ll wire when the surgeon, has seen him. And, Dick, you’ll come down at once if there’s anything wrong, and bring nurses. Poor, poor little darling!… Did you say after the 2nd of June, Dick? I do hope you’ll be able to get off. You need a holiday away from your tiresome family… Good-bye, Mr Medina. It was so kind of you to be patient with a silly mother. Look after Dick and don’t let him worry.’
I had preserved admirably the aloof air of the bored and slightly ashamed husband. But now I realized that Mary was not babbling at large, but was saying something which I was meant to take in.
‘Poor, poor little darling!’ she crooned as she got into the taxi. ‘I do pray he’ll be all right – I think he may, Dick… I hope, oh I hope… to put your mind at ease… before the 2nd of June.’
As I turned back to Medina I had a notion that the poor little darling was no longer Peter John.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The District- Visitor in Palmyra Square
During the last fortnight a new figure had begun to appear in Palmyra Square. I do not know if Macgillivray’s watchers reported its presence, for I saw none of their reports, but they must have been cognizant of it, unless they spent all their time in the nearest public-house. It was a district-visitor of the familiar type – a woman approaching middle age, presumably a spinster, who wore a plain black dress and, though the weather was warm, a cheap fur round her neck and carried a rather old black silk satchel. Her figure was good, and had still a suggestion of youth, but her hair, which was dressed very flat and tight and coiled behind in an unfashionable bun, seemed – the little that was seen of it – to be sprinkled with grey. She was dowdy, and yet not altogether dowdy, for there was a certain faded elegance in her air, and an observer might have noted that she walked well. Besides the black satchel she carried usually a sheaf of papers, and invariably and in all weathers a cheap badly-rolled umbrella.
She visited at the doctor’s house with the brass plate, and the music-teacher’s, and at the various lodging-houses. She was attached, it appeared, to the big church of St Jude’s a quarter of a mile off, which had just got a new and energetic vicar. She was full of enthusiasm for her vicar, praised his earnestness and. his eloquence, and dwelt especially, after the way of elderly maiden ladies, on the charm of his youth. She was also very ready to speak of herself, and eager to explain that her work was voluntary – she was a gentlewoma
n of modest but independent means, and had rooms in Hampstead, and her father had been a clergyman at Eastbourne. Very full of her family she was to those who would hear her. There was a gentle simplicity about her manners, and an absence of all patronage, which attracted people and made them willing to listen to her when they would have shut the door on another, for the inhabitants of Palmyra Square are not a courteous or patient or religious folk.
Her aim was to enlist the overworked general servants of the Square in some of the organizations of St Jude’s. There were all kinds of activities in that enlightened church – choral societies, and mothers’ meetings, and country holiday clubs, and classes for adult education. She would hand out sheaves of literature about the Girls’ Friendly Society, and the Mothers’ Union, and such-like, and try to secure a promise of attendance at some of the St Jude’s functions. I do not think she had much success at the doctor’s and the music-teacher’s, though she regularly distributed her literature there. The wretched little maids were too down-trodden and harassed to do more than listen dully on the doorstep and say ‘Yes’m’. Nor was she allowed to see the mistress, except one of the lodging-house keepers, who was a Primitive Methodist and con-sidered St Jude’s a device of Satan. But she had better fortune with the maid at No. 4.
The girl belonged to a village in Kent, and the district-visitor, it seemed, had been asked to look her up by the rector of her old parish. She was a large flat-faced young woman, slow of speech, heavy of movement, and suspicious of nature. At first she greeted the district-visitor coldly, but thawed at the mention of familiar names and accepted a copy of the St Jude’s Magazine. Two days later, when on her afternoon out, she met the district-visitor and consented to walk a little way with her. Now the girl’s hobby was dress, and her taste was better than most of her class and aspired to higher things. She had a new hat which her companion admired, but she confessed that she was not quite satisfied with it. The district-visitor revealed a knowledge of fashions which one would have scarcely augured from her own sombre clothes. She pointed out where the trimming was wrong, and might easily be improved, and the girl – her name was Elsie Outhwaite – agreed. ‘I could put it right for you in ten minutes,’ she was told. ‘Perhaps you would let me come and see you when you have a spare half-hour, and we could do it together. I’m rather clever at hats, and used to help my sisters.’
The ice was broken and the aloof Miss Outhwaite became confidential. She liked her place, had no cause to complain, received good wages, and above all was not fussed. ‘I minds my own business, and Madame minds ’ers,’ she said. Madame was a foreigner, and had her queer ways, but had also her good points. She did not interfere unnecessarily, and was not mean. There were handsome presents at Christmas, and every now and then the house would be shut up and Miss Outhwaite returned to Kent on generous board wages. It was not a hard billet, though of course there were a lot of visitors, Madame’s clients. ‘She’s a massoose, you know, but very respectable.’ When asked if there were no other inmates of the house she became reticent. ‘Not what you would call reg’lar part of the family,’ she admitted. ‘There’s an old lady, Madame’s aunt, that stops with us a bit, but I don’t see much of ’er. Madame attends to ’er ’erself, and she ’as her private room. And of course there’s…’ Miss Outhwaite seemed suddenly to recollect something, and changed the subject.
The district-visitor professed a desire to make Madame’s acquaintance, but was not encouraged. ‘She’s not the sort for the likes of you. She don’t ‘old with churches and God and such-like – I’ve ‘eard ’er say so. You won’t be getting ‘er near St Jude’s, miss.’
‘But if she is so clever and nice I would like to meet her. She could advise me about some of the difficult questions in this big parish. Perhaps she would help with our Country Holidays.’
Miss Outhwaite primmed her lips and didn’t think so. ‘You’ve got to be ill and nervy for Madame to have an interest in you. I’ll take in your name if you like, but I expect Madame won’t be at ’ome to you.’
It was eventually arranged that the district-visitor should call at No. 4 the following afternoon and bring the materials for the reconstructed hat. She duly presented herself, but was warned away by a flustered Miss Outhwaite. ‘We’re that busy today I ‘aven’t a minute to myself.’ Sunday was suggested, but it appeared that that was the day when the district-visitor was fully occupied, so a provisional appointment was made for the next Tuesday evening.
This time all went well. Madame was out, and the district-visitor spent a profitable hour in Miss Outhwaite’s room. Her nimble fingers soon turned the hat, purchased in Queen’s Crescent for ten and sixpence, into a distant imitation of a costlier mode. She displayed an innocent interest in the household, and asked many questions which Miss Outhwaite, now in the best of tempers, answered readily. She was told of Madame’s habits, her very occasional shortness of temper, her love of every tongue but English. ‘The worst of them furriners,’ said Miss Outhwaite, ‘is that you can’t never be sure what they thinks of you. Half the time I’m with Madame and her aunt they’re talking some ’eathen language.’
As she departed the district-visitor was given a sketch of the topography of the house about which she showed an unexpected curiosity. Before she left there was a slight contretemps. Madame’s latch-key was heard in the door and Miss Outhwaite had a moment of panic. ‘Here, miss, I’ll let you out through the kitchen,’ she whispered. But her visitor showed no embarrassment. ‘I’d like to meet Madame Breda,’ she declared. ‘This is a good chance.’
Madame’s plump dark face showed surprise, and possibly annoyance, as she observed the two. Miss Outhwaite hastened to explain the situation with a speed which revealed nervousness. ‘This is a lady from St Jude’s, Madam,’ she said. ‘She comes ‘ere districk-visiting and she knows the folk of Radhurst, where I comes from, so I made bold to ask her in.’
‘I am very glad to meet you, Madame Breda,’ said the district-visitor. ‘I hope you don’t mind my calling on Elsie Outhwaite. I want her to help in our Girls’ Friendly Society work.’
‘You have been here before, I think,’ was the reply in a sufficiently civil tone. ‘I have seen you in the Square sometimes. There is no objection on my part to Outhwaite’s attending your meetings, but I warn you that she has very little free time.’ The woman was a foreigner, no doubt, but on this occasion her English showed little trace of accent.
‘That is very good of you. I should have asked your permission first, but you were unfortunately not at home when I called, and Elsie and I made friends by accident. I hope you will let me come again.’
As the visitor descended the steps and passed through the bright green gate into the gathering dusk of the Square, Madame Breda watched her contemplatively from one of the windows.
The lady came again four days later – it must, I think, have been the 29th of May. Miss Outhwaite, when she opened the door, looked flustered. ‘I can’t talk to you tonight, miss. Madame’s order is that when you next came you was to be shown into her room.’
‘How very kind of her!’ said the lady. ‘I should greatly enjoy a talk with her. And, Elsie I’ve got such a nice present for you – a hat which a friend gave me and which is too young – really too young – for me to wear. I’m going to give it to you, if you’ll accept it. I’ll bring it in a day or two.’
The district-visitor was shown into the large room on the right-hand side of the hall where Madame received her patients. There was no one there except a queer-looking little girl in a linen smock, who beckoned her to follow to the folding-doors which divided the apartment from the other at the back. The lady did a strange thing, for she picked up the little girl, held her a second in her arms, and kissed her – after the emotional habit of the childless dévoté. Then she passed through the folding-doors.
It was an odd apartment in which she found herself – much larger than could have been guessed from the look of the house, and, though the night was warm, there was a fire l
it, a smouldering fire which gave off a fine blue smoke. Madame Breda was there, dressed in a low-cut gown as if she had been dining out, and looking handsome and dark and very foreign in the light of the shaded lamps. In an armchair by the hearth sat a wonderful old lady, with a thing like a mantilla over her snow-white hair. It was a room so unlike anything in her narrow experience that the new-comer stood hesitating as the folding-doors shut behind her.
‘Oh, Madame Breda, it is so very kind of you to see me,’ she faltered.
‘I do not know your name,’ Madame said, and then she did a curious thing, for she lifted a lamp and held it in the visitor’s face, scrutinizing every line of her shabby figure.
‘Clarke – Agnes Clarke. I am the eldest of three sisters – the other two are married – you may have heard of my father – he wrote some beautiful hymns, and edited –’
‘How old are you?’ Madame broke in, still holding up the lamp.
The district-visitor gave a small nervous laugh. ‘Oh, I am not so very old – just over forty – well, to be quite truthful, nearly forty-seven. I feel so young sometimes that I cannot believe it, and then – at other times – when I am tired – I feel a hundred. Alas! I have many useless years behind me. But then we all have, don’t you think? The great thing is to be resolved to make the most of every hour that remains to us. Mr Empson at St Jude’s preached such a beautiful sermon last Sunday about that. He said we must give every unforgiving minute its sixty seconds’ worth of distance run – I think he was quoting poetry. It is terrible to think of unforgiving minutes.’